‘Yet he is called the Redeemer.’
‘Because he takes on the task of redemption for all who come to him, all who pray to him. And yes, it is an act of profound courage. But he does not expect the same of his people-he appears to possess no expectations whatsoever.’
This was most loquacious of his Lord, evidence of a long, careful condensation of thought, of considerable energy devoted to the nature of the cult clinging to the very edge of Black Coral and Night, all of which seemed… unusual. ‘He leads by example, then.’
A sudden glitter of interest in Anomander Rake’s eyes and he studied Spin-nock Durav intently. ‘Has any one follower stumbled on to that possibility, Spinnock Durav?’.
‘I do not know. I, er, don’t think so-but, Lord, I am too far outside all of it at the moment.’
‘If the Redeemer cannot deny, then he is trapped in a state of imbalance. I won-der, what would be needed to redress that imbalance?’
Spinnock Durav found his mouth dry, and if he’d built proud castles of compre-hension, if he’d raised sound fortifications to guard his assumptions, and arrayed vast armies to argue his case and to shift and align and manoeuvre to defend his cherished notions-if he had done all this to then sit in comfort, secure in his place in this conversation-if this was indeed a game of Kef Tanar, then in one simple question posed, his foe had crashed his empire to ruin.
What would be needed to redress that imbalance?
A man who refuses.
You tell me time is short, my Lord. You lead me to elucidate what bothers me-for you can see that something does-and then, amidst the lofty clouds of religious discussion, you lash a lightning bolt down, striking my very heart.
If I am to do something, I must do it soon.
My Lord, my awe of you is unbounded. My love for you and the compassion you so delicately unveil leads me into this willingness, to storm without hesita-tion what you would have me storm, to stand for as long as needed, for it is what you need.
‘It is well I am immune to heat,’ Anomander Rake said, ‘for I have scorched my boots most severely.’
And so the fire grows round you, yet you do not flinch.
I will not fail you, my Lord.
‘Endest Silann is upon the mountain road now,’ Anomander Rake said, rising. ‘And Crone has returned but soon must wing away again. I shall ask her to send a few grandchildren to guard him on his journey. Unless, of course, you think it might offend Endest Silann should he see them wheeling overhead?’
‘It might, Lord, but that should not change your decision.’
A faint smile. ‘Agreed. Send my regards to the priestess, Spinnock.’
Until that moment, he had not known he was going to visit the High Priestess-who had scoured away her very name in service to her role in the Temple of Dark-ness, to make of her ever-open legs an impersonal act, that made her body a vessel and nothing more-but he now knew that he needed to do just that. Kurald Galain was a most troubled warren right now. Storms rumbled within it, drumming every thread of power. Energies crackled. Making her insatiable. So, she will want me-but that is not what concerns Anomander Rake. There is something else. I must go to her, and I don’t even know why.
But he does.
Spinnock Durav found himself sitting alone in the small chamber. The fire was down to coals. The air smelled of burned leather.
The High Priestess of the Temple of Dark had cut her hair even shorter, making her disturbingly boyish as she pushed him on to his back, straddling him with her usual eagerness. Normally, he would now begin to slow her down, providing a force of resistance defying her impatience, and so drawing out her pleasure. This time, however, he let her have her way. This was all incidental. Since that un-known force had trembled through Kurald Galain, all the priestesses had been frantic in their desire, forcing male Tiste Andii into the temple and the rooms with the plush beds. If the rumours were true, then even the occasional human was dragged in for the same needful interrogation.
But no answers could be found in the indulgences of the flesh, and perhaps all this was a kind of metaphorical revelation of that raw truth, one that extended far beyond the temple and the prescriptions of priestesses. Yet, did he want answers from Salind? From that young human woman who could not be more than twenty years of age? From another High Priestess?
He had seen too much, had lived too long. All she faced ahead and all the ex-periences still awaiting her-they belonged to her age, and should indeed be shared-if at all-by one of similar years. He had no desire to be a mentor, for the student soon grows past the need of one (if the mentor has done his job well), and then it is the mentor who rails against the notion of equality, or of being sur-passed. But the impossibility of the notion went further. She would never surpass him. Instead, she would grow old all too quickly, and the sensibilities of her life, a life so truncated, could never match his.
